


These Times Weren't Made for You

by computergodbaby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Becoming a family, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Loves Cookies, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, so slow building steve has been mentioned like twice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-06-13 04:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19593454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/computergodbaby/pseuds/computergodbaby
Summary: The feeling of being overwhelmed hits him suddenly and without a warning. Bucky’s metal arm whirred gently as he rotated a plum in his hands; he got away from his new apartment in the outskirts of Brooklyn to buy some food to tide him over for now. A sobering awareness crosses his mind, that there’s something seriously wrong with him and this world.A few months after The Winter Soldiers' failed mission in Washington, DC to take Captain America down fails, Bucky Barnes is staying under the radar from Hydra. Soft redemption story in which Bucky finds his home in Brooklyn and his own family.





	1. Chapter 1: These Times Weren't Made for You

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy! This is my first work as a chapter story, I've had fun writing it :)

The feeling of being overwhelmed hits him suddenly and without any sort of warning, just a wave of dizziness crashes through him. Bucky’s metal arm whirred gently as he rotated a plum in his hands; he got away from his new apartment in the outskirts of Brooklyn to buy some food to tide him over for the afternoon. A sobering awareness crosses his mind, that there’s something seriously wrong with him and this world. 

Pushing his intrusive thoughts aside, Bucky takes out $1.50 and purchases a bundle of plums in a farmer’s market. He thanked the short Romanian women running the booth.

“Thank you. They’re good and ripe, yeah?” Bucky asked, his voice coming out raspier than he expected.

“They’re good, they’re ripe,” the Romanian woman replies with a strong accent, already moving onto the next customer.

There’s just something about the city— Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan. It’s so hypnotizing to him. Why is he so drawn here, if he can barely handle the small crowd of people sidled at his side that are looking at the box of peaches next to the box of plums he just chose from. There’s just something wrong with him.

Bucky can name multiple things wrong, sure— like his 70-year-long-life detour as being Hydra’s asset, being frozen in cryostasis for some of his time as the Winter Soldier and living through World War II and falling off the train.

But this is— something else. No, this— stems from long before any of that, a burden from longer than he can remember. Even if Hydra wipes his memory for his entire life.

His love for the city survived through all the brainwashing.

The city is full of secrets in every face, alley, cafe, bakery, and every apartment terrace full of others who haven’t been through what Bucky’s been through. The mystery, no matter how terrifying they can be, made him never want to leave. It’s refreshing— the city lights, the bustling crowds that never stop. 

It’s where Bucky grew up. Right?

The sun is hidden through a cluster of clouds going across the mass of concrete and skyscrapers that make up Brooklyn. His gray jacket covers his body from the crisp, cool September air, he absentmindedly hides beneath his baseball cap, and his shoulder-length hair shields his face from being recognized.

Bucky vanishes into the darkness of the alleyways and heads back home to his new apartment. It’s been a few months since the fight on the Helicarrier, months after seeing himself in a museum in DC, months of staying hidden from Hydra, and months of trying to figure out who he has. Bucky guesses being in New York has slowly, but surely, regenerated some old memories that Bucky can’t make up in his mind. They’re far away artifacts that he can’t seem to retrieve, out of reach like space, the moon, the stars— like you know they’re real, but what if they aren’t?

He’s also reclaimed the name Bucky, but that doesn’t mean he feels like the Bucky Barnes. He doesn’t feel like he was apart of the 107th with the Howling Commandos, was Captain America’s best friend, Steve’s best friend, and an older brother to 4. Feeling like his true self is like chasing after a grain of sand that has fallen in between his fingers, it’s impossible to retrieve.

He stuffs his gloved hand into the pocket of his jacket. The summer is finally beginning to fade away, and the days are becoming cooler in the city. He wasn’t too keen on the colder months coming up, but it’s convenient wearing more layers to hide his metal arm in the cold weather. In these next upcoming months, he’ll definitely have to save up even more money to buy a pair of boots, his ratty sneakers will not hold up in the snow and rain.

On the way home to his apartment, he notices, “Mechanic Wanted to Look at Car,” flyers stapled to a telephone pole. He snags the entire flyer, saving it so he can hopefully earn an extra hundred bucks. Even if this is a one-time job, Bucky can still pocket this money while he searches for more under-the-table jobs. He barely has enough for rent as it is, and he’s only a few days into living in this apartment. Getting the security deposit down while keeping himself fed was nearly impossible.

Bucky removes his shitty burner phone from the front pocket of his jeans and texts the number. He’s always been interested in mechanics and has some experience. He quickly sends a text, and definitely tries his best to upsell himself and tell them about his experiences. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and continues his way home.

Bucky’s settling in a shitty part of Brooklyn— how any part of Brooklyn is shitty, he doesn’t know. He’s on the outskirts towards Bed-Stuy, and it’s a shithole apartment complex. It’s the only thing he can afford with his stolen ID. It’s a small studio apartment on the third floor of the complex named the Village, with noisy ass neighbors below him, but at least above him they’re quiet. It’s gross here, but he’s strangely fond of it.

The outside of the building are light brown and tan, but the inside is dingy looking with sad, cream-colored walls. The stairs are wooden, this building is probably older than Bucky. And that’s saying something, Bucky falls at a rough 98-years-old.

Bucky hasn’t seen much of his neighbors yet, but the woman to the right of his apartment in room 340 is kind and is raising a toddler boy alone. In 336, this is the loudest apartment in the hall so far. To Bucky’s luck, he’s in 338. 

Bag of plums in hand, he makes his way up the squeaking stairs. This past week he has been attempting to figure out which of the stairs squeak the loudest and which area of the steps are quietest. 

In the back of his mind, Bucky knows he cannot get used to this. He needs to be ready, every minute of every day, to leave all of this behind with no hesitation. Even though he’s now settling in, moving in his bare-minimum of items and still finding furniture and finding a bed to sleep on, he keeps hoping he won’t have to. Which is stupid, because of course he will have to leave this all behind. 

Hoping otherwise is foolish, but as Bucky has somewhat painfully realized today, there is something seriously wrong with him.

His stomach is rumbling angrily, but the thought of returning to his desolate apartment isn’t exactly ideal. He’ll have to sit on the floor on a ratty old blanket, which has been his makeshift bed these last few days. Tomorrow, he works from 8AM to 6PM for this nearby motel, cleaning the entire day. He doesn’t really mind, especially if they’re paying under the table and don’t really care who he is. Then, he’s going to go shopping for furniture. For anything.

He reaches his dark brown tatted, decaying front door, with locks he desperately needs to change. Reaching into his pocket for his key, and almost fucking drops it when the neighbors to the right of him burst through their own door, a kid’s shrill voice calls out, “Hey, you!”

Bucky whips around, his hand immediately going to the pocket knife he has safely hidden in his pocket on the inside of his jacket, ready to defend himself against whoever is behind him. But, he barely— just barely— manages to see who it is and stops himself from punching the shrimpy teenage girl that lives next door, along with her younger brother next to her who is holding onto some sort of tablet and can’t seem to take his eyes off the screen.

“Oh!” the teen girl shouts, watching Bucky in shock. Her hands are thrown up in defense, Bucky realizing his left arm is shaking and raised. He lowers it. Her eyes flicker down to Bucky’s gloved hand, which is fisted at his side. She looks up at him and smiles sheepishly, “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What do you want, kid?” Bucky asks, looking between the two of them and frowning.

Before Bucky can speak again, the hyper teenager is talking again, and a lightbulb goes off in her head, it’s almost funny. “I have something for you!”

Bucky’s taken aback. Sure, they introduced themselves when they noticed him moving in a few days ago, they offered to help him with moving any boxes in— not that he has any— but why, of all people, does she have something for him? He watches with skepticism written all over his face, not bothering to mask it. 

The teen runs back into her apartment while her little brother holds the door open, and shouts, “I thought Emmy was going to take it later today!”

“No, I was! Emmy works for another three hours,” the teen yells back, even though they’re at least ten fucking feet apart from each other. Bucky, breath still heavy, relaxes and straightens out his sweater. He adjusts his backpack, and the teen comes back out.

Bucky takes in both their appearances; the teenager is short and goes up to his chest. She wears large square glasses and dark brown hair is curly. Her little brother goes up to her shoulders, has short hair with little curls, and is wearing a sweater and jeans. The teen is wearing some sort of black work uniform.

Then, Bucky notices what’s in the teen’s hands. A clear container full of chocolate chip cookies and a small vase of flowers— daisies? — in her small hands. She’s beaming up at him. 

“We wanted to welcome you here. It was mine and Emmy’s idea to get you a gift, I baked the cookies after school today…” the kid began to falter. Like Bucky knows who Emmy is? She hands over the cookies and flowers, and Bucky immediately softens his face and looks at the two of them with intrigue.

Bucky eyes the gifts suspiciously but grabs them from her. “Um... thank you. Very much.” 

Bucky really can’t ignore these two kids— with a third one just now following behind them and closing their apartment door behind them. Bucky assumes he’s the youngest; he looks 6. Bucky honestly doesn’t want to carry this conversation, and the kid shifts on her heels because she most definitely notices.

“I’m Jessica by the way. But most people call me Jesse. These are my brothers Caleb and Nicholas. We have another older brother and sister, one’s at college and one’s working,” the kid goes on, and Bucky can’t help but notice her nervousness. She looks down at the ground and rarely makes eye contact with him. Why does she want to talk to him so bad? “It’s nice to actually meet you.”

“You, too. I’ll see you three around,” Bucky hurriedly said, turning back to his apartment. It came out more rudely than he intended. He didn’t miss the teen’s face— Jesse? —light up but fell when he turned away. He hesitates.

“Hey?” the teen calls out, her voice hushed, and Bucky stops in his tracks. She slowly steps towards him but keeps her distance. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, kid. Don’t worry,” Bucky begins, turning back to her calculating gaze. He should be annoyed with her intrusiveness right now, but he’s just tired. He snapped when they were just introducing themselves. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” the kid just shrugs, and continues back down the hall to the stairs with her brothers. Bucky enters his apartment, wishing he had a couch to crash on.

Bucky enters his dark apartment and sets the small mason jar full of daisies down on his thin windowsill, hoping he can at least take care of this. His windows are covered with newspaper, but at least the flowers aren’t in the closet or trash. Baby steps to taking care of himself and other things.

If he can’t even take care of these daisies, that will just confirm that there’s something seriously wrong with him.

———————————

Bucky could not drag himself out of bed this morning, wishing he could ignore his ten-hour shift. But, he’s finished. It takes all of Bucky’s willpower to not growl at the subway station card reader, with a bustle of people yelling at him to hurry up. It’s not his fault the card isn’t reading. Bucky doesn’t even want to think about using the card machine to refill his subway card with money.

He told himself he’ll drag a new mattress home, but that would just be a nuisance, especially if he needs to take a train. So, he’s on the hunt for any surface to sleep on. Anything is an upgrade from the floor.

Bucky gets off in Brooklyn, Avenue U and embarks on his journey of finding furniture. It’s chilly out, he’s hungry, his bones are aching, and he just wants to go home. He can hardly identify where home is anymore, but that’s a problem for later.

He stands in front of a shop called Avenue G Thrift Shop. The display is full of drab clothes, but he spots furniture in the back. He stops in front of the window, noticing the price tags. $2 for a shirt? He’s been paying $15 in regular stores. 

He ruefully thumbs across the cash in his jean pockets, and heads inside. He’s immediately bombarded with questions from the short Asian woman, the store clerk. “What are you looking for?”

“Something to sleep on,” Bucky responds, overwhelmed by her straightforwardness. 

“Follow me,” the woman’s voice booms, and he can’t help but glance around and hoping nobody is staring at them. Nobody is. Everybody’s minding their business, and he relaxes his tense shoulders.

The woman brings Bucky to bed frames, mattresses, and even an arrangement of pull-out couches. He thinks he could use one of these; saves space in his studio apartment.

“You need delivery?” the woman asks, causing Bucky to flinch at the loudness of her voice. She eyes his quizzically, and Bucky can’t blame her. “You veteran?”

“What?” Bucky turns, mirroring her calculating daze.

“It’s okay. My husband is vet. Gets jumpy, too. Which one do you need?” the woman turns back to the furniture, gesturing to him to proceed to search.

“I can’t carry any of this back home,” Bucky quietly admits, drawing the conversation away from his own jumpiness. “But I want that one. And that one.”

The woman’s laugh booms through the store, “Ever heard of delivery?”

She checks the price tags for Bucky of the mattress and the tattered loveseat. She screams in another language that Bucky can’t quite identify, and a man appears behind her and is carrying the loveseat and mattress towards the back of the store.

“38.50,” the woman demands, looking at Bucky from behind the store counter a few feet away. Handing the money over, he notices the man moving the loveseat towards the back again. “Address.”

Before Bucky heads out, the woman stops him. He jumps again with the sensation of her calloused hand on his left arm, metal hiding behind his jacket. “Take care, young man.”

———————————

A newly showered Bucky munches on day old cookies in his apartment on his new loveseat and it’s eight in the evening now, the sun completely gone by now. He feels his exhaustion once he sits down for probably the second time today.

He closes his eyes, thanking the Gods for the invention of chocolate. It’s been, what, seventy years since he got to enjoy chocolate alone? Bucky gets an idea.

Once his cookies are out of the microwave that came with the apartment, the first bite has Bucky in eternal bliss. The cookie itself is soft, but not enough to completely fall apart. The rich chocolate melts through. Every small bite is better than the last, leaving a euphoric feeling--

“Hey!” Bucky’s heart drops at the sound of pounding on his door. It then turns into frantic knocking, and Bucky is pulled out of his bliss like a bullet out of a gun, forming goosebumps on his arms.

Cookie now on the floor, Bucky reaches for his pocket knife and slowly treads towards the door. His shoulders are so tense for a moment he thinks his shoulders are stuck to his ears.

“This is Jesse. Are you home?” the teen from yesterday shouts. Bucky releases the most melodramatic sigh he’s ever heard and pockets his knife. He reaches his door, grumpily swinging it open. He doesn’t hide his bilious expression.

“What do you want, kid?” Bucky asks, done with the day. He has to keep reminding himself that she baked the cookies, and he wants more. Even with a grumpy Bucky, the kid is smiling at him like he didn’t just shout in her face. Before she can answer, he reminds himself to be nice. “Thanks again for the cookies.”

Bucky didn’t know her smile could widen even more, but it did. “Come eat dinner with us! I made more cookies!”

The kid goes to grab Bucky’s arm, and he wills himself to not flip her over. She pulls him gently by the arm, because she’s a small shrimp. She couldn’t pull him if she wanted to. Resigning, Bucky shuts his door and allows himself to be dragged to an apartment across the hall by the kid.

“Kid, you know I can walk, right?” Bucky grumbles, half-joking with her. She giggles. A warm meal and even more cookies do sound appealing after his shit day, but who is us? Bucky can put up with a couple of kids if it means his belly full of warm food, but there are more?

Bucky doesn’t know how he feels about this small display of affection by the kid, just gently holding his arm. His metal arm. Hydra’s arm. He should have a mind to tell her it’s rude to touch people without their permission, but once they reach the door and he smells the soy sauce, rice, chicken, and other goodness that his stomach immediately growls through all the noise of the apartment. The kid just laughs.

“Guys, I finally got him! He’s back,” the kid announces, drawing unnecessary attention to himself, but reminds himself they’re giving him free food. She lets go of his arm, shoving a white container with red symbols on it. “Have some rice.”

The apartment is much neater and cozier than him, and he wonders whose apartment it is. There is a teenager, a black young adult with sweatpants haphazardly sprawled across the couch, a cream-colored couch with a nice glass table next to it. One of the kid’s he met yesterday is sitting on the floor next to the couch, Jesse now at the table with one of her brothers, and he hears the presence of someone else in the apartment.

Jesse kicks the chair out from under the table for Bucky, her mouth stuffed with food and shoves a black container full of orange chicken towards him. The TV is on, but the volume is low. An old woman comes out of the restroom, greeting Bucky with a warm smile. “Sit, young man. Eat your food before one of the other kids gets to it. We saved it for you.”

Bucky’s chest fills with— warmth? — a feeling he hadn't felt since the twentieth century. He ignores it, reminding himself it’s probably just gratefulness. But, they thought of him? Of all the people in the world they could have fed, they chose Bucky. She made him cookies. They got him flowers. “My name is Angie.”

“James,” he responds. “Or Bucky.” 

Bucky takes a seat, almost crying once he eats for the first time in days. He’s been living off plums, protein bars, and water. The teen from the couch joins them at the table, and the young kids sit in front of the TV with cartoons on it. The older woman takes a seat, and they eat in a comfortable silence. 

He’s hoping and praying they don’t ask personal questions, even though he does have a sort-of backstory ready. He has been preparing the story for months, becoming comfortable with it. Nobody can make ties to him being the Winter Soldier and from the 20th century. He just lets people assume what they want, and either corrects them or goes along with it. He doesn’t like to lie, but he’s just masking the truth with his story.

“So, how long have you been here now? A week?” the older woman asks, the table turned to him now. She has visible scars on her arm, and he recognizes the type of scar tissue that doesn’t heal after years. Battle scars. He wonders what she’s been through.

“5 days. Since Monday,” Bucky begins, and they all keep their eyes to him. Pressing for more. “Used to live here growing up. Around here.”

The teen boy lights up. “What part of Brooklyn?”

Shit. Bucky has to make up something. He can’t even recognize Brooklyn in its current state, let alone know where he lived almost 100 years ago still exists. “Towards Queens.”

This answer seems to be sufficient enough, the kid just grins at him and he relaxes. The conversation turns away from him, and he gladly listens as they talk about getting together tomorrow to eat again. Bucky can get behind that, especially since he works in the morning and needs this cash for rent only, there isn't enough wiggle room to spend on anything else.

He learns a lot about his neighbors that evening. The old woman, Angie, has a wife. She doesn’t reveal her name. Says she was British. Her wife was an agent. The teen boy is Miles and he’s 19 years old. He’s annoying, he talks a mile a minute, but Bucky likes that he is in college and doing robotics! He tries to hide his own excitement. But, liking robotics won’t give away his past or his identity, right? He indulges in conversation with the teens who excitedly talk about science. Jesse is seemingly good at biology and chemistry and talks about her advanced high school courses. Bucky doesn’t miss Angie’s gaze when the teens talk about school. It’s a look of admiration. 

Angie keeps refilling Bucky’s plate of food, subtly he stops noticing after the third serving. They got enough food to feed a village. The teens eat almost as much as Bucky, even though they aren’t super soldiers like him. 

“Every day next week I have a quiz,” Miles admits, stuffing lo Mein into his mouth. “I can’t even study at the library because there are a billion students studying at all hours.”

“I do my homework at work because cartoons only work long enough on Caleb and Nick before they’re bouncing off the walls and running in circles,” Jesse says, taking food over to her little brothers. Bucky can confirm this, even just living her for a week. But why does this young girl have a job? Jesse hugs her two brothers after giving them their food, the three of them falling over and laughing quietly. The youngest tickles the oldest, the three of them snorting from laughter. They try not to knock over food, but the teen is already cleaning up rice off the floor.

“If you ever need a place to study, you two know you can come here. You guys used to study here,” Angie retaliates, cleaning up her plate. 

“Yeah, Yeah, Angie,” Miles huffs, “We’ve been slacking off on studying.”

Angie snorts, lightly punching Miles’ arm and turning back to her dishes.

Miles and Jesse follow in her steps, putting their plates away. Bucky goes towards the small kitchen sink to wash his plate, but Miles takes it from him. “Don’t worry. I got it.”

“Kid, it’s okay. You guys fed me,” Bucky gets up, itching to help out. Angie pulls Bucky’s attention from Miles, shoving a pan in his face. Bucky lights up once he sees warm cookies.

Jesse shoots Bucky a shit-eating grin when he’s sprawled out on the chair again, eating two cookies at a time. She gives him a, ‘I knew you liked them,’ sort of look when he hums appreciatively. These are pretty damn good cookies. Bucky had half a mind to flick the kid’s forehead for that look, the little punk. 

Bucky sits with the two youngest kids, listening to them ramble about Spongebob Squarepants. Not having a clue what they’re saying, he watches the yellow sponge on TV. 21st century is weird. He makes a mental note to watch more TV.

Their eldest sister, Emmy, makes an appearance to put the two young kids to bed. 

“It’s 9:30!” the nine-year-old yells, groaning when everybody laughs at him. He wraps his arms around Emmy, receiving a warm hug back.

“Caleb, my bedtime is 9:45,” Miles tells him, and Bucky can believe him. This kid can hardly keep his eyes open anymore. 

“Bed. No arguing. You had a long week,” Emmy ushers them away from the TV.

Emmy turns away from the complaining kids, her attention now to Bucky. He allows himself to offer a small smile to the stranger.

“I’m Emmy. If you ever need anything, we’ve gotchu,” Emmy extends her hand, smiling and keeping the kids at her side. This just reminds Bucky of how young she is, taking care of all her siblings. He hasn’t met any parents, seen, or heard of them.

“I’m Bucky. You, too. And thanks for the cookies and flowers.”

They extend Bucky’s invitation to watch TV, but his eyes can’t stay open anymore. He hasn’t been this well-fed and happy in so long. He genuinely can’t remember the last time he felt this way.

At the end of day and back in his apartment, he lays the ratty old blanket on top of his mattress. He doesn’t want to admit that he feels hopeful living here., but he does. Angie sent him with another container of cookies. He promises to return it, but she shoves him away and mutters, “Keep it.” 

Bucky didn’t know if he should be offended, but he accepted the gift. 

Jesse and Emmy from next door and Miles from down the hall immediately stand out to him. Emmy, too young to be their mom, takes care of all of them. Jesse, probably too young to drive a car, has a job, takes care of her siblings, and school. He notices they’re all exceptionally smart, especially the two teens. They spoke in scientific terms, Bucky only familiar with a few from his high school days in the 30s. Jesse is a goofy disaster, Miles awkward, Angie a mother-hen, and the two young boys are just pure kids who love their sisters.

Taking out his most recent journal, he opens to a new page. He’s sitting crisscross on his new mattress, his lower back thanks him for not sleeping on the old, creaky wooden floor.

Sure, he didn’t remember anything new today, but he has new memories to write. Update his lists. He just needs to survive, he reminds himself. Keep the daisies alive, eat more cookies, too.

———————

How Bucky ended up with 4 teenagers and 2 kids in his apartment, he genuinely doesn’t know why and how. He had worked a quick mechanic shift this morning, checking the car from the flyer he picked up a few days ago for a man named Christopher Hunt. Coming back, he pocketed his money and was elated that the job was done by 11AM and that today was not a motel job day. He hardly worked those shifts, but they usually had the most amount of positions open to work. From his recent down payment on the apartment, it’s been hard to eat meals regularly, so he really can’t complain if he has any money at all coming in.

The idea of resting on his new bed until he has to be a responsible adult and go out to buy actual sheets lifted his spirits. That is until he reaches his apartment floor, the third floor, and sees a group of teens gathered in the hallway. 

Bucky quietly treads up the stairs, wanting to slip into his apartment and ignore these kids. There are some he vaguely recognizes, he doesn’t see them often because they live on different floors.

“Bucky!” Jesse beams up at him, holding a bag of groceries at her side. She stands up, walking over to him. “You hungry?”

“Kid,” Bucky says in lieu of a greeting. “What do you want?”

“Well, I, uhh-“ she holds her groceries up, suddenly nervous. She wasn’t nervous any other day, or when she was dragging Bucky to eat dinner at Angie’s last night. The plastic bag threatens to tear. “We wanted to make food at your place. These are our friends from the first and second floor. We wanted to welcome you here.”

Bucky stares at the overwhelmingly-full bag of groceries, and back at all the teenagers and Jesse’s little brothers, then back at the kid’s face and she looks nervous. He did answer her rudely, and she wears her emotions on her sleeve. She still looks tentatively hopeful and the corners of her mouth quick upward slightly. “Miles is coming, too. He’s working on his materials science project, he wanted to show it to you.”

“This is America, Kate, and Riri. Kate and Riri don’t live here, but America does,” Jesse states, once Bucky doesn’t respond and turned his gaze to the others, proudly gesturing towards her friends. Bucky inwardly groans. He has to cook with a bunch of hormonal teens who are probably full of teen angst. The other teens wave to Bucky, he waves back, and they all go back to their conversation about Tony Stark’s arc reactor and how it breaks a law of thermodynamics. Bucky’s brain short-fuses and he resignedly sighs, unlocking his door and inviting them in. Why are all of these kids geniuses?

“I’ll make you cookies!” Jesse cheerfully beams, her voice going up a register. Her face reddens at the realization of her excitement.

Bucky deadpans, “Are you gonna be a little shrimp-sized stalker? Do I need to move?”

Jesse rolls her eyes and America snorts. Riri chimes in, “That’s how she gets. She’s dramatic and loves people after 3 minutes with them.”

And that’s how Bucky ended up with Nick, the youngest, currently sitting next to him on his new loveseat from the Avenue G shop, which he made another mental note to stop by today to buy a couple of more items for his apartment. 

As there are kids crowded in his apartment, now is the time he notices the threadbare furniture; and now is the time the kids take in his tattered furniture. At his kitchen island, there are no stools. They merely lean against the counter. His thin and creaky mattress is deposited in the corner of the room, and his loveseat is against the wall. One of his notebooks are laid on his bed next to his backpack that is full of everything that he owns. Bucky makes another mental note after sitting and writing in the dark to buy a lamp for his room.

Now, back to the kitchen where Bucky was watching intently before this.. kind of cute kid turned him into a human desk and is drawing on his notebook on Bucky’s lap. Jesse was opening up the plastic bag full of groceries that are about to fall out. For someone who literally begged Bucky to cook him lunch to welcome him, Jesse is standing in the kitchen, staring comically wide-eyed at the Bucky’s one pot and the food in her bag. She fumbles around with the element of the stove and grabs a box of pasta from the bag. With only one pan, she sends Caleb to bring them another pot from their room. America, Riri, and Kate are all at the kitchen island and laughing at her. They don’t seem to mind the emptiness of his apartment, or maybe they’ll make fun of him for it later in private. Bucky doesn’t know.

“Remember all of our chemistry labs last year?” Riri deadpans, and this is the first time Bucky notices three of them have curly hair and notices the diversity of their group. And they are young women in science. Bucky remembers back in the 30s and 40s, women weren’t allowed to go into science. Especially not women of color. He feels a surge of pride towards these kids; adoration, that these kids are pursuing this. And even Miles, a black young man. Even if those racist notions are the type that Bucky grew up with, he didn’t believe in them. 

“Hey, chemistry and cooking are totally not the same,” Jesse growls, dumping a clump of noodles into the pot of water on his stove. She jumps back at the splash of boiling water from the violent way she dumped the noodles in. Bucky honestly doesn’t know how to react to this. “If you improvise in chemistry, you die.”

“Hey! We need to talk about mine and America’s college applications, remember?” Kate joins in, turning towards Bucky. “What do you think; out of state or in state?”

Even though he was participating in the conversation, he’s thrown off guard when he’s addressed. The four teens burst into laughter at the site of Nick drawing on Bucky’s lap. It’s a laughter mixed with ‘Aww’s.’ “Uh—“

“I’m gonna leave you reminders on your fridge,” Jesse comes over, sitting next to Bucky. “A grocery list. You have nothing.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Punk. I’m not an old man. I’ll remember.”

“Hey, Bucky, do you want some Snapple Tea? We got extra,” America asks from the kitchen, a few feet away from them. She pulls out a glass container full of light-colored tea, labeled with a Peach. She pulls out a bottle of an unnaturally red colored drink, labeled ‘Gatorade,’ too. And another pouch called, ‘Capri Sun.’ What are all of these drinks?

“No, give Bucky Capri sun. He’s young at heart,” Jesse smirks at Bucky, stifling her laugh. 

“I’m sorry, what makes you think I’m old?” Bucky asks, glowering at the teen. He turns back to America. “I’ll have Capri Sun.”

“Where’s your phone? Your TV? Anything,” Jesse asks, but then she must realize what she’s saying. Her mortified expression turns into sheepishness. “Sorry. I’m being an asshole right now.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, grabbing Capri Sun from America and checking on the kid’s food. Jesse is back by his side, opening the bag and staring at the rest of the food she bought. She turns to Bucky expectedly, unsure of what to do with the food. 

Bucky hands Jesse a knife from his drawer, and she looks at it like he gave her a bomb. Her eye darts to his gloved hand, but she doesn’t say anything. Bucky’s starting to wonder if she does know about his metal arm hiding under his long sleeve shirt. “Dice up the vegetables and I’ll work on the grilled chicken you brought.”

Her eyes go comically wide, like she forgot she bought chicken. She mouths an, ‘O,’ and whispers, “Right, chicken.”

The kid obediently takes the knife and America rinses the vegetables, as Riri and Kate talk at the kitchen island about college. Caleb is standing next to his sister, watching her align the vegetables and clears the counter for her. Jesse doesn’t ask for a cutting board, not that she even needs one. The previous apartment tenant left the countertop scratched-to-shit, anyways.

“Buckyyyy,” Nick groans, sprawled out on his couch. “Where’s your TV? I’m bored.”

“Nick!” Jesse shoots the young kid a look, turning from the vegetables. Her expression is mortified. “Don’t be mean!”

“Hey, no, it’s okay, he’s a kid,” Bucky retaliates, not wanting a fight to erupt. The realization that he remembers is him and his siblings used to fight suddenly floods in, and Bucky drops chicken he’s seasoning right now. His chest rises and falls heavily, he can hardly breathe. It’s like the walls are closing in. He remembers. He doesn’t know exactly what he remembers, but it’s remembering a memory, sort of. As they deal with the younger child, Bucky picks up his mess.

He jumps when Riri comes into view at his side. “You okay?”

“Hey, could you put the chicken on the pan they brought over?” Bucky asks, completely ignoring Riri and not looking at her. From his peripheral he sees her nod. His chest is full of heaviness that he doesn’t recognize. He takes large strides over to his notebook, scribbling as coherently as he can while he still has this memory intact. 

Completely unaware of his surroundings, he’s shaken from his thoughts once he’s jotting the last of his memory down in his notebook by a yelp. Of course, coming from Jesse.

He walks back over to the kitchen, watching her grip her hand in obvious pain and she won’t let the others take a look. 

“She spilled some boiling water on herself,” America sighs, moving out of the way for Bucky. Bucky is sure he’s about to freak the fuck out. He notices Kate out of the corner of his eye turn the element off, so they don’t burn the food. “Let me see.”

The teen is clutching her hand up to her face, trying to hide it in her chest. Bucky notices her hand that has a red stripe across it, where the water burned her. Bucky cursed under his breath and gently grabs the kid’s wrist, pulling her hand over to look at the burn. He hisses at the calluses and blisters already forming. He grades a finger over the lightest part of the burn, earning a screech.

Bucky pulls the kid to the sink, hoping cold water will be enough for her burn. “How in the hell did you burn yourself this bad?” 

He holds her hand under the cold water, turning it over. She buries her head down, leaning it against Bucky’s outer arm. She wiggles and tries to become free from Bucky’s grip, so he has to adjust. He removes his glove from his metal hand, unaware of this unconscious decision he just made. He quietly mutters to her to get her arm back under the cold water and gently grabs her arm. “It hurts!”

“Your hand should never be unprotected near boiling water,” Bucky reprimands sternly, noticing the crowd of teens and two kids while he attempts to help the teen. When the kid is quiet, he looks back at where her gaze is falling and notices his bright, metal arm. All the kids are staring at it. Nobody says anything, yet.

He would have never revealed his metal arm if it weren’t for this kid burning herself and being reckless in the kitchen. Sighing, he turns the water down once he notices new tears streaming down her cheek. “Do any of you guys have cream for her hand? I don’t have my first-aid kit.”

“I’ll go check my apartment downstairs,” America says, not taking her eyes off of both their hands. “Come on.”

With Riri, Kate, and her little brothers gone, Bucky turns to the teen. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” the kid begins, her voice laced with misery. In a second, she perks up, “Also, your metal arm is so cool!”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, hiding his self-consciousness over his arm, “Sorry for what? Burning your hand?”

The kid turns red, her face full of embarrassment and Bucky watches as realization masks her face. Jesse lowers her gaze to the floor, unable to look Bucky in the eyes.

“What? You crushing on me, kid?” Bucky groans, drying his flesh and metal hand with one of his dish rags and trying to pry her into finishing her apology.

“What? No!” the kid screeches, and this is the reddest Bucky has ever seen the teen and he’s never seen her at such a loss for words. She turns her utterly mortified face back to Bucky, then sees the shit-eating smirk on his face. Bucky can’t help it and can’t wipe it off his face. Her embarrassment slowly recedes away. With an unimpressed glare, she quips, “Jerk.”

Bucky shrugs, “I’m going to assume that’s what you’re blushing about ‘till you tell me what’s going on. You okay? You’re as red as a lobster.”

She groans, and Bucky still can’t wipe his asshole-grin from his face. A childish pout settles on her face, and she stammers and takes a big breath when she can find the words to speak. She bites her bottom lip and rustles the dish rag around and avoids her burn. “I just— I’m so sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“You were just joking. I’ll make fun of you now for burning your hand on pasta,” Bucky quips, just as the group returns with some aloe in their hands. He ducks his head to hide his amused smile when he sees the kid pseudo-offended with her hand over her chest. 

With the kid now patched up, the teens all stare at Bucky’s metal arm, but failing at being subtle. Miles doesn’t even try to hide his excitement, and he jumps when he feels a hand on his arm. Jesse inspects it, looking up at Bucky for confirmation that she can. He rolls his eyes and takes his arm away. “I’m hungry.”

She snorts, “I’m taking a break from cooking.”

“You’re so dramatic,” America sighs, pushing her away from the kitchen island countertop and continues chopping them up. 

“Bucky, come look at my project,” Miles calls out, sitting on the floor in the middle of his apartment. He takes a second to take another look around, as Riri takes a seat next to Miles. Kate and Jesse are leaning against the small kitchen island, throwing vegetables at Caleb and Nick. They jump to catch the food with their mouths. America is cooking, scolding them for dropping food and bumping into her. 

Bucky takes a seat on the floor, towering over both kids even while sitting down. These teens are all average heights from 5’6-5’11, then there’s Jesse, Riri, Caleb and Nick who are short, but Bucky’s the tallest. He looks down at his outfit, he hadn’t gotten the time to change after work. His jeans, smeared with some car oil, his long sleeve red shirt is a mess, too. His hand isn’t gloved, but the kids aren’t prying on it, so maybe Bucky shouldn’t mind. They’re bound to see it anyways, given how much time they spend with each other and how extroverted they are around their neighbors.

Bucky’s drawn back into reality once Miles shows Bucky’s his project, and explains they’re a bunch of polymers put together, Miles explains he wants to make some green-material and replicate clean energy processes with these polymers. Bucky’s completely lost. Riri seems to be following fine, even contributing her own thoughts.

“My bio- and polymeric materials and materials processing lab is making more sense with this project,” Miles huffs, combining polymers together on the ground. “I also have to show you guys my new circuit board.”

“What’s that?” Bucky asks, finally joining in the conversation. Maybe this will make sense to him? 

“It’s a part of one of my nanotechnology classes,” Miles begins, polymer model falling apart in his hand as he struggles. “I built a circuit, just a basic one that I’m gonna use for coding. If my codes are right, a little LED light at the top will turn any color I want it to.”

Bucky can’t help but feel out of his element. This conversation really does make him feel 98 years old.

“Kid, you’re doing great,” Bucky reassures Miles, “You, too, Riri. You guys are really smart. Follow your dreams.”

Miles and Riri smile up at him, completely amused with his comment, but Bucky really does want them to succeed. They're all level-headed kids who are geniuses and he hopes they know how much potential they have.

Bucky spares a few paper plates for all of them to share, after they miraculously saved lunch after the noodles ended up boiling over. Bucky serves them all, and he can’t believe he actually gets to eat a full meal after a day of work.

They’re all gathered on the floor now, Miles, Kate and Caleb are squished together on the couch. Bucky is sitting on his lumpy mattress with Nick, the youngest, and Caleb, the second youngest, by his side. He hears a small clack, turning to the new sensation on his metal arm. There’s a small letter ‘B’ on his arm, a red toy magnet. For fucks sake.

The five teens on the couch and the floor burst into laughter at the site of Bucky, his left arm covered in colorful rainbow magnets. ‘Bonky,’ is spelled out on his arm with a giggling kid at his side.

Bucky groans, swiping the magnets off his arm and ruffles the kid’s hair. “You’re just like your sister: annoying.” 

And that’s how Bucky ended up with small carrot pieces on his bed, with horrible aim from Jesse and Miles. Jesse’s face scrunched up in annoyance, missing Bucky by a mile with her aim. The kids are doubled over from laughing so hard, and Bucky tries to hide his smile. He really does. He can’t help the chuckle that escaped his mouth while these kids have a food fight in his apartment.


	2. Chapter 2: Rough Time to be a Lost Soul

Saturday afternoon, all the kids are back at their homes and apartments with their families and Bucky’s sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. The afternoon darkness engulfs the entire apartment. His flesh hand is absently clasps his metal hand, fingers laced together. Bucky assumes that Pre-hydra James Buchanan Barnes must have spent his free time hanging out with others, with Steve, with their friends. Yesterday and today’s gathering with kids from his apartment complex is the first time since— according to the museum, June, 1943— that he spent time with anybody just for the sake of company.

Before they had left, he kept thanking Jesse for bringing food over, profusely, because he finally got to eat— though he didn’t tell her that part of it. They were good company, too. Maybe the Howling Commandos were good company like the teens were. The guilt that twinges in his abdomen is very real, because the fact that he can’t _remember_ what hanging out with them was like. Bucky just hope one day, the memories will come flooding in so he can remember the Commandos. To honor their memory.

If he has to be honest, he did need the time to recuperate from today, he isn’t used to all this interaction. It wasn’t unpleasant, though; but he did find himself confused. He did appreciate that they weren’t annoyed with Bucky’s lack of furniture, silverware, and food. He basically has nothing in here. Not even light, except for the covered windows. He ended up shoving a thrifted book under his new loveseat, one of the legs are damaged and he had not noticed. After escaping Hydra, the lunch today and dinner last night was the _first_ time he’s spent with anybody just for the sake of company. If it were up to him, he’d rather not be bombarded just short of his apartment.

But, it hadn’t been so bad.

His headache from work this morning has dulled down, but these headaches are constant. It always begins with a pain behind his eyes, creeping to the back of his head. Some days, his frontal lobe pulses in pain he feels like he’s dying. Withdrawal from the drugs Hydra used on him was rough months ago, and Bucky barely survived in DC. 

Bucky bites his inner cheek thinking of his withdrawal symptoms. This whole week, he has been too _busy_ to even experience symptoms. Bucky is sure he was given Benzodiazepines, but he has been managing his agitation and nervousness. Bucky was constantly curled up on the floor in whatever house he was squatting in for the night. Finding a vacant apartment, home, _anything_ in Dupont Circle, Georgetown, or 16th Street Heights. Washington, DC was the worst during spring and summer, the humidity agitated him even farther and some days he’d wake up, clueless to where he was or what had happened. 

Bucky’s shaking. His breathing has been rapid for a couple of minutes now, but he tastes salt in his mouth from the tears streaming down his face. _It’s over. It’s okay._

Sniffling and rubbing his palm over his face, Bucky reaches for his notebook. A little bit of light seeps into his bare apartment, his _unfamiliar_ apartment. He can’t fall into this pattern. Sure, it’s hard, but he can’t dread on his past and symptoms, it does more harm than good. He doesn’t have the right to this pain, because all the people _he_ harmed.

He flips through the first notebook he wrote, the one he started in DC a few months ago. The first half is Bucky’s scribbles from the museum. He can’t will himself to think about DC or Steve Rogers, but maybe reading about his past again will help relieve his anxiousness around his current confusion. He’ll simply remind himself who he is, where he’s from. But he doesn’t identify with the man he was in the twentieth century. He isn’t James Buchanan Barnes.

One of his worst memories from DC is the ones where he put innocent civilians in harm's way. Paranoia seeped deep through each and every neuron in his brain, _trained to be a killer,_ and one morning he woke up and was violently dissociating. He shudders at the memory, attacking others who tried to stop him. 

The realization that Bucky may never, _ever_ , escape Hydra sends a wave of nausea from his abdomen to his throat. His mind if a vicious cycle full of fear towards Hydra. He had to escape DC where he was detained, he couldn’t bear to think of a bloodied Steve Rogers after he fought him on the Helicarrier.

_His mission._

Bucky swallows back bile, loathing himself for being like this. His chest heaves, and maybe, just _maybe_ , Steve won’t feel decades of enmity towards Bucky. How the hell is he even alive?

Frustrated with his failure in reading his journal, he puts it back down with a toss. Instead, he opens up his most recent journal to write his mental lists he made today.

  * Buy a lamp
  * Eat more cookies
  * Go buy sheets for your bed
  * Buy food



So, that’s what he does. He leaves. Just to shop. He has the _choice._ It’s still unbelievable to him, he can just get up and _go_. Honestly, the realization that he got up and left DC to live in Brooklyn is still unbearable. But he did it, he’s here, and he probably needs a therapist.

———————-

For the rest of the week, Bucky had not heard much from the kids, nor Angie, but wished the teens good luck on their exams and quizzes. It’s been a quiet week, full of working and becoming acclimated with finding menial local jobs.

Well, it was a quiet week until the morning, there was a gentle knock on his door as he got ready for work. He wasn’t sure whether or not he was up for company, but it’s early in the morning. Who would be coming to his door at this time?

Bucky definitely needs to keep his guard up. He hadn’t considered arming himself to open the door until he was a foot away. Hydra could catch him off guard any minute of the day. It can’t be Hydra, though, right?

His breathing rapidly picks up, he can’t bear the thought of Hydra finding him here, with all of his neighbors in the complex. His mouth goes dry, because, fuck, he doesn’t want to live in fear like this.

Another gentle knock snaps Bucky out of his thoughts, and a wave of relief washed over him as he stands a foot away, hearing a teenage voice call out, “Hey, Bucky, it’s Miles and Jesse. Wanted to see if you want to get breakfast.”

The relief practically knocks Bucky on his ass, he can’t get his heart rate to stabilize. He realizes these kids can _never_ be here-- not _if-- when_ Hydra finds him, he cannot be found here. They’re a powerful organization with ears everywhere, and he realized he brought the danger here. To Brooklyn. To this apartment complex in Brooklyn because he can’t bear to be caught.

Inner turmoil aside, Bucky rubs a palm over his face and throws his sweatshirt on while he goes to open the door. There he finds, the two teenagers, _safe_ , with backpacks on and sleepy faces. He realizes how frantic his breathing is, so he sucks in a deep breath and wishes his dizziness would subdue.

Miles Morales, a 19 year old college kid who has the most energy Bucky has ever seen in a college student, his eyes gleaming, brown skin, his curly hair haphazardly spread on his hair, and he’s greeting Bucky with a smile. “Hey!”

Bucky cringes at his excitement, it’s too early for this shit. It’s only 7AM. He greets Miles and Jesse. “Hey, Miles. Kid.”

Jesse yawns, quite literally in their faces, and her demeanor changes in an instant from sleepy to cheerful. “Bucky! We were hoping you’d want to eat breakfast with us this morning.”

He sets his mouth in a line, looking between the two teens. He crosses his arms, drawing his brows together as he hums, “Hmm. What were you guys thinking of eating?”

  
Honestly, the best thing he can do is stay as far away from them as possible, but, for some stupid reason he cannot figure out, he _doesn’t._

“Dunno, was gonna microwave my eggs and throw toast on top,” Miles begins casually, and it’s quite literally the craziest thing Bucky has heard in his life, and he’s had a long life.

“ _Microwave_?” Bucky turns, completely dumbfounded, and he lets the chuckling teens inside his apartment, completely aware of Bucky’s astonishment.

“Bucky, do you have food to make? We can make you something,” Jesse offers, setting her backpack down on the floor in the small kitchen. “A _microwave, though_?” he asks again, then they all crowd together and he finally shakes his head in disbelief. He pulls out a pan and directs them to search around for whatever they need to make.

Bucky now only has one stool at the kitchen island, which Miles beats Jesse to and sits in it. They run to the stool, about to fight for it while they snicker at each other.

Leaning against the counter, Bucky absently watches Jesse gather bread to toast in her apartment and oils up a pan to make eggs for all of them. _On the stove. Like a normal person._

“Bucky, can I get your opinion on my practice presentation?” Miles away, pulling his laptop out of his backpack. 

“Um.. I don’t think I’m the right person for that,” Bucky admits, rubbing his left arm absently. What good is Bucky going to be, he is the worst person to ask. He really doesn’t mind helping the kid, though.

“It’s okay, it’s for a project for everybody to be able to follow along,” Miles begins, catching sight of Bucky’s ungloved metal hand that Bucky now realizes he forgot to cover it while getting ready for work. “I just have the introduction slide.”

Jesse comes back in the room, asking Miles if he’s ready to turn in his part of the presentation. She cracks open an egg, shell pieces falling into the yolk and the yolk glides down her hand. She cringes, and Bucky is quick to grab a paper towel, wet it slightly, and wipe her hand. She turns to him, her face red and sheepish, but she mumbles, ‘Thanks,’ while Miles keeps going.

“Yep. My group didn’t finish their part, so I stayed up last night doing that,” Miles painfully admitted. “We’re focusing on fluid flow this unit, and how to derive conservation equations.”

Jesse must now notice Bucky’s puzzlement, and just fondly chuckles at him. “I think Miles is just making stuff up.”

“Hey, I think Bucky can follow along just fine. His face lit up when I mentioned carbon fiber,” Miles snorts a laugh, earning an eye roll from him.

“Hey, before I joined the army, I loved science,” Bucky admits, but his face immediately becomes hot. They must notice how quickly he stiffens. _Why did I say that? What the fuck?_ He picks at his left sleeve, under the inspection stares from the two teens. “That was a while ago.”

Bucky’s freaking out now. None of them have said anything, which might be a good thing? Is he free from personal questions?

“You were in the army?” Jesse asks, incredulously. She’s careful with her tone, but it’s also a light and wistful conversation. Like, he can answer, but he doesn’t need to once she announces, “Eggs are done.”

“Yeah,” Bucky speaks just above a whisper, “I got out just recent--”

She must have noticed his slight tremble, his nervous hand fumbling with his sweatshirt sleeve, and rapid breaths when she cuts him off, “Hey, we don’t have to talk about that, if you don't want to. But if you want to, we’ll listen.”

Why are teenagers kinder than adults? Isn’t it supposed to be the opposite? Teens are filled with angst, curiosity, and hatred, not patience, but here are these kids not interrogating him.

Miles is watching him expectantly, and Jesse is serving him his scrambled eggs and toast. His face lights up when his food is served. Bucky’s frozen, his mouth voice isn’t willing to answer right now. All he can manage is a soft sigh and a noncommittal noise. 

“Want to sit on the couch with me?” Jesse asks, and Bucky is still frozen. It’s like his limbs have gone heavy, he feels goosebumps beneath his sweater, and barely moving a muscle in his face. She’s looking up at him, a line is between her eyes formed from concern, but she is unaware of his inner freakout.

“Yeah. Let’s sit,” Bucky finally manages, his voice small, setting his plate down in his lap once he sits down. She sits criss cross on the loveseat, after she kicked her shoes off and sets her own plate down. Bucky watches her and Miles dig into their food without any hesitation. Bucky pokes at his food, relieved once Miles begins practicing his presentation.

He finally wills himself to relax, listening distractedly to Miles go on about the introduction to his impressive project. He’s only in his sophomore year, but is a genius. Bucky can honestly bet that Miles is the kid every one of his peers turn to him for help, especially with how extroverted he is, how kind he is, and how approachable he is. 

Bucky is distracted by Jesse’s knee pressed against his leg, because she’s comfortable around him. Even after learning he has a freaky metal arm and he is a veteran, she doesn’t fear him. Neither does Miles. He doesn’t know whether or not he should cry tears of relief or out of pity for their naive nature. Of course, he would _never_ dare to hurt them or put them in harm's way, but he’s not exactly free from Hydra. Just them being here is a risk, and he desperately wants to kick them out and never see them again if it means they’ll stay safe. No matter how much he enjoys their company, their pure nature, and they’re amazing kids overall. He _wants_ to be near them and talk with them. He has gotten his hopes up that he’ll be able to run into them in the building complex, let them run his kitchen again no matter how annoying the mess is and how bad the food is.

Maybe this isn’t a flaw, and he knows deep down in his heart that he just wants to see the kids and his other neighbors. He _wants_ to learn more about them, their struggles, how hard it is for them, too, to make ends meet for food and rent. And that’s a dangerous thing. What if Hydra is secretly watching him, and then they all become considered his accomplices?

Bucky feels the kid move her knee away from his leg, but feels the phantom feeling of the platonic touch. He guesses the touch helped ground his mind and anxious thoughts. He’s _here_. Not in some icy ravine in the middle of war. Not in some lab, drugged up on God-knows-what. Not having his arm viciously hacked off even farther up than the fall injured him. _Not there_. He’s _here,_ eating breakfast with his neighbors who don’t force him to open up if he’s not ready. Two teens, one in high school and one in college who saw a glimpse into Bucky’s horrific life and didn’t bolt the other way.

———————-

A few weeks into living in his new apartment in Brooklyn and being accustomed to a sporadic routine of finding random, convenient, one-time jobs, Bucky could not muster up the courage to go grocery shopping in the afternoon. After being pent up in his apartment all day, switching between his bed and his loveseat to sit on, glancing out the window, he literally had nothing left to eat. 

He checked his cupboards, coming up empty of his usual can of green lentils he enjoys, black beans, noodles to make pasta, rice, and bread. He’s out of butter for his pasta. He tells himself he needs fresh produce, he can’t live off of carbs. Maybe he can just ask his neighbors for a cup of rice?

He can’t do that to them, they’ve all given him too much. The mere fact that they’re friendly to him even after they’ve said hi to him in the apartment complex hallways after a bad day of work speaks wonders. He can’t allow himself to ask others for _anything_ , even if he did have anything in return. Bucky has no right bothering them.

He tells himself he’s just adjusting to the colder weather, his metal arm is hurting at the joints and it’s a constant pain so he’s adjusting, and that he just needs a day off. That’s all it is, even if he has been more lethargic than usual for the last week.

But really, the back of his mind is yelling back at him, _don’t go out in public, you’re a danger to everybody. You’re an abnormal ghost who doesn’t deserve to be in Brooklyn. A drifting, crazy-eyed ghost._

Bucky believes he doesn’t deserve to be here, safe and sound. 

Between all the lives he murdered, _brutally_ , he’s a literal killing machine. 

A soft knock surprises Bucky out of his head, and honestly he shouldn’t be surprised with all of these interruptions. They’re all interactive here, and sometimes Bucky’s just a hermit. This anxious feeling deep on his guts will not shake, he doesn’t feel up for talking to anybody. 

It’s Annalise, from room 336, she’s in her business casual clothes Bucky assumes from work and looks tired and older than she probably is. A small toddler boy, Danny, is on her hip. Behind her is Nick, Caleb, and Jesse. 

“Hey,” she greets, immediately cut off by all the kids beating her to talk. She stammers before the small kids start talking, “We just wanted to come check up on you.”

“Hi!” Nick says, immediately squirming to get inside Bucky’s apartment. “Hey, kid. How was school?”

“Nick, leave him alone,” Jesse pulls him back, glancing back at Bucky and grimacing slightly apologetically.

“School was good!” Nick excitedly squirms around in Jesse’s arms, “I finished my reading chart.”

“Do- do you want to go to the grocery store with us?” Caleb, the second youngest asks. 

“Pleeeease, Bucky,” Jesse pleads, drawing out her words in a childish way and beams up at him with a hopeful smile. It’s the same usual smile when they all ask Bucky to join in, he just isn’t used to this alien phenomena of others wanting to include him in everything they do. He isn’t pushed to do anything he doesn’t want to do, but he’s always welcome.

“You can totally say no, I was going to stay behind with Danny while we wait up for Emmy to go shopping. They wanted to see if you’d like to take them.”

 _Jesus._ Is the universe sending Bucky a sign? Why is the universe being nice to him? He’s visibly strung out, his body is fed up with working in a musty motel today, just cleaning during the day. It’s mindless work. He doesn’t know if he can do this.

But, the kids were thinking of him? To go grocery shopping? It still surprises him how close they are and how much of a community it is here. He’s contemplating this decision; he doesn’t want to be an anxious wreck going to the store with three kids, but he _really_ needs food and doesn’t want to ask for food again.

God, his fucking flaws.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” he sighs, turning around to grab his wallet and shoves it into his jeans pocket. He slides his jacket over his long sleeve shirt, taking a deep breath in while he shifts his backpack on over his shoulders. Pit in his stomach of anxiety just grows and grows, just the misery is embedded into his mind and it won’t ever leave.

This is how Bucky ended up with being led by three kids to the store through cold Brooklyn streets, a mass of people getting home from work, and arriving at the subway station. He protectively kept the kids close, Jesse reigning her younger siblings in occasionally to stay close to them. There are scattered crowds of nicely dressed people all with headphones in, young teenagers hanging out in Brooklyn on a school night, old people passing through, and young couples hanging out.

He’s just too exhausted for this. He lazily slumps down in the train, watching Jesse sit her younger brothers down at the edge of the seats next to Bucky and sitting on Bucky’s other side. 

He focuses on the two young boys talking about school and video games, and he’s rubbing at his left arm and picking at his jacket. He can’t help but wish he was back at his apartment, away from the cold, away from any possible Hydra agents.

Taking three kids around in a grocery store is more difficult than Bucky anticipated, but he just forces them to take the grocery cart for him. They merely decided to share a cart while they go around this large grocery store. They could have opted for the small corner bodega a couple of blocks away from them, but they insisted on coming to the larger grocery store because they _need_ their favorite brand of yogurt from Trader Joe’s.

Bucky made the mistake of walking steadily in front of the grocery cart while the kids steered it, reciting pangs to the back of his heels when the kids keep running into him. He breathes in sharply, ready to shove them out of the way and take over the cart. He can’t really be annoyed with them, they’re really not doing it on purpose. He can’t snap at them.

“Sorry!” Caleb pleads, guilt-stricken and pulls the cart back away from him.

“You know what, ‘s fine. Have your sister help you take it,” Bucky sighs, sliding his journal out of his backpack opening it to the back for his grocery list. He keeps a hand on the front of the cart this time, walking slowly through the aisles. He listens to Jesse talk their ears off about her EMT course, she’s literally quizzing herself as they shop.

“Uh huh,” Bucky mutters every time she asks him if her answer sounds right. Honestly, he could put time into listening because of the knowledge he has on traumas from Hydra, but they trained him to _be_ the killer, not how to revive the victim. He just can’t do it right now, so he ignores her. He doesn’t want to be reminded of every brain contusion, cardiac arrest, and bone snap he caused. _Thump._

“Shit!” Bucky grunts, the wheel of the cart running over his foot.

“I’m sorry!” Jesse winces, reversing the cart away from him. He decides to make his way to the cart handle and drive it with the teen and the small kid. 

They’re just being little shits and steer the cart with him, the youngest Nick holding onto the side and trying to climb into the cart.

Jesse is standing under his right arm as she steers the cart with him, and Caleb is under Bucky’s left side as he steers the cart. Bucky sighs at the six mismatched hands steering the cart. His arms are wrapped around them, occasionally reaching over to grab his guilty pleasure foods like gummy bears and chocolate bars. He doesn’t feel guilty, filling the cart up with fresh produce as well.

His thumb swipes across the cash he has stored in his pocket, rolling his eyes at himself. Sure, these kids are surprisingly doing well with their budget for their own food, but they _are_ the ones that insisted dragging Bucky through the sweets and candy aisle. He shakes his head, allowing himself to just buy two bars of chocolate and a bag of gummy worms. He’s so flawed. 

His metal arm shifts uncomfortably under his sleeve, and the kids start noticing. Jesse notices first, seeing the slight wince he tries to hide when they reach checkout and load the conveyor belt. Thank god she doesn’t say anything. He’d probably send a mean glare her way, then immediately regret it.

The second time they notice his arm malfunctioning is when Nick starts to run off, because Bucky forgot he’s seven and he can’t keep his eyes off of him for more than a second or else he’s running across the store, so Bucky reached out with his left arm when he got distracted by flowers. Now _this_ caused a plate in his metal arm to pinch a nerve, but he gently brings the kid back and pays. He ignores the kids when they ask if he’s okay. So far, anything about the metal arm has been unspoken of.

On the train ride back home, the sun is shining on the horizon, almost hiding behind the tall, brown buildings in Brooklyn. The sun gleams directly into their eyelines while they’re all clumped together on the train. The sun hits the orange seats, reflecting off and also glaring into their eyes. Nick sits in Jesse’s lap with her arms around him, Bucky takes the seat next to them, with Caleb on Bucky’s right side. It’s a longer ride during rush hour, so Bucky protectively keeps them close to him, urging them to scoot close to him. There are enough seats so commuters don’t need to stand up, but it’s still cramped.

He leans his head back on the window, watching the window across from him as it slowly passes through the underground station and bustles of commuters get on and off their trains. He feels something in the crook of his armpit, looking down to see Jesse’s head leaning against his arm and chest. Nick is already half awake in her lap, the both of them uncharacteristically quiet. Bucky sighs.

It was challenging enough to leave his apartment today, but to have the kids so close to him and _leaning_ against him? He stiffens. 

Okay, they’re not his kids. To everybody else on this train, it sure as hell looks as if he is. He carried all their bags of groceries, has a kid leaning against him, and protectively kept scooting them closer to him. 

It’s not that affection makes him uncomfortable, but that’s exactly what it is. It’s not like anybody cares, most people are glued to their phones on this train or simply resting their eyes, too. They’re not judging Bucky and his crazy-ghost eyes, his probably crazy eyes, his expression that always screams _paranoia_ wherever he goes, nobody is looking at his long, slightly knotted hair. He’s really fucking glad it’s fall so he can cover up his metal arm. Nobody has _ever_ touched his metal arm, only Hydra did to excruciatingly, ‘upgrade,’ it with no regards to his pain, or when he was sent to kill with his metal arm. Now there’s a small, curly headed kid leaning against him.

Maybe he can just pretend it’s okay for now? The warmth makes him feel slightly better on this train, and he’s _out_ of his comfortable apartment. Sighing, he brings his arms away from his side, noticing the glance from Jesse but she immediately sidles up to his side when he wraps his metal arm around her. It couldn’t have been comfortable leaning against the metal, so his side is better for her to lean on. It doesn’t seem to bother her to have all this heavy weight resting on her, so he keeps his arm around her and holds her arm. He does the same with Caleb on his other side, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him closer to his side. Caleb doesn’t say anything, just fidgets with his _iPod_ or whatever it is that he’s playing games on. 

_Okay. This is weird. Or maybe it isn’t?_

Maybe he’ll fit in trying to act as a family, Hydra agents surely wouldn’t suspect Bucky to have a family on the run. Fuck, is he endangering them? Well, he knows the answer to that, but he selfishly doesn’t want to admit it right now. It’s been too long of a day. 

He’s snapped out of his thoughts when the kid shifts under his arm, burrowing her head into Bucky’s side even more. He lightly pats Nick’s head, who’s lightly dozing off in his older sisters arm. These three kids are inseparable, and Bucky can’t help the guilt pent up inside, ready to spill over the edge at any moment. 

Maybe if Hydra agents do find or, or not if— _when_ — they do find him, he’ll be far away from. But for now, he fondly ruffles the teen girl’s hair, earning a groan from her once she looks up and sees Bucky’s smirk, and pulls Caleb closer to his side. 

Three kids are dozing off in Bucky’s arms. Warmness rushes through him that he is definitely not familiar with. He doesn’t _really_ mind them cuddling him. Okay, _he does_ , but only because of where he came from. He’s dangerous. They’re too trusting. Not that he will purposely hurt them, but what if his triggers get set off and he doesn’t know? 

He leans his head back against the window and takes a sharp breath in, not willing to wake the kids up. He can’t bring himself to do it, just safely get them home and get away from them so he doesn’t harm them.

If his hold around the kids tightens, well, they don’t complain.

———————-

Cars driving by echo through the dark streets of Brooklyn outside his apartment, the incessant buzzing from the streetlamps do not stop, and the darkness floods the apartment. Bucky stirs in his sleep, sighing softly into the quiet air. Even in his sleep his expression is downcast.

_Soldat, location is 762 ritterstraße. Asset feels cold, but must focus on the mission. Objective is simply: kill target. No mission overrides. Asset will make the kill, at approximately 5:26A.M._

_The target will be at the gas station, by routine at 5:20A.M. Six minutes later, target will make its way back to its car, where the owner is away from the station. Target is alone. Multiple contusions to the frontal cortex, blood is trickling down targets head. Radio is obnoxious, music spills out crackles and static, distracts the Asset._

_The Asset reaches right leg in to the car, steering the car into the gas station. Gasoline is flames. Asset makes its way back to report mission._

Bucky wakes up, thrashing and the sound of his door. His fight or flight response is triggered, stumbling out of his bed and his blanket. He feels the tears on his face, sticky from his nightmare. His throat is very raw, he makes guttural pained noises. He wants this to _end._

“Hey, hey,” a girl calls out, rushing to his side. Bucky tries to escape from her in this small apartment, sliding backwards on his hands and bottom to get to the wall beside his bed. He feels a knot in his stomach.

_Copper taste in Asset’s mouth, stinging lip, watery eyes from impact of a brutal punch. Victim is fighting back. Arm tightens over victims throat, over the carotid sinus throat turns purple. Victims face is blue. Brain metabolism isn’t working, mission report will be successful. Asset only needs to hold metal arm around the victim’s neck for 10 seconds before unconsciousness occurs. Apply pressure to the trachea and larynx, Asset’s mission handler has decided that this adds extra excruciating pain, and Asset does its job well._

“Hey, big brother, you’re okay,” she said again, in a soothing tone. She’s kneeling at his side, holding one hand out but not touching him. Bucky’s sobbing. He’s kicking at her, he desperately wants her to get away. His whimper is loud and he can hardly feel his flesh hand and his feet. He can’t allow her to get near him, not like this.

_If Asset does not do its job well, it will be punished._

A girl behind her, he can’t remember who she is. Younger girl behind her, doe-eyed with fear. Her face contorts when she sees him, probably filling with judgment on how frantic Bucky is and how disheveled he currently is. Sweat causes his clothes to stick to his body but he shivers, he aches, he is shrouded in fear.

 _Look at me when I’m talking to you, Winter Soldier._ _Cold, bare eyes stare back at him. Eyes hard. Give Handler mission report. Why is Asset failing to give a mission report. Mission report includes the brutal, in cold blood murder in accordance to the KGB._

“Get away!” Bucky yells, his voice hoarse. He can’t endanger anybody right now. Hydra is coming. He _can’t_ let Hydra find him, not here, not now. He struggles for breath, his voice isn’t coming. He feels a turbulent feeling behind his sternum, he just wants it to go away. The knot in his abdomen tightens, he cannot go on another kill mission.

 _Soldier. Do not fail your mission._ _Handler smacks straight across its cheek, bringing tears to eyes from the harsh sting_. _Handler is warning Asset. If the mission fails, the Asset receives the mouthguard and painful, cold metal on his face. Wipes memory._

Emmy comes to Bucky’s side, with Jesse coming right beside her. Bucky heaves, reaching for his nearest trash can. They must notice how pale he is, because the next thing Bucky knows is he’s retching into his small waste basket held by the smaller girl. His throat is even more raw than he thought, and he can’t stop shaking. His metal arm is perfectly still, he stares down at his mismatched arms, his turbulent movements of inspection cause the two girls to hesitantly move away an inch.

_Asset._

He whimpers, he doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed with how pathetic he feels right now. His arm is capable of anything. What if he hurt them in his sleep, his trigger words somehow make his way into his dreams.

_Take the shot, asset! Somebody is in the way, do not hesitate._

He feels a hand circling his back, soothing him. He jerks away, grabbing the small arm with his metal arm and pushes it back towards the small girl. He doesn’t miss her grimace. “Bucky,” she leans in again, voice pained and thick, “Can I touch you?”

Deep breaths. His abdomen twists once he sees a contusion forming already on the younger girls arm.

It’s all Bucky can focus on at the moment, in the too dark apartment in the middle of the night. It’s a Sunday night, everyone has fucking school and work tomorrow. 

Bucky leans into the touch of her hovering hand. _Jesse._ His shoulders shake and he cannot stop crying. 

_Your mission was a success. 3 kills, all on target. No missed shots._

Small arms wrap around Bucky’s neck, pulling him into a hug. He feels a hand in his hair. He wants to freak out, hair touching does not mean something good. Hair touching means his hair will be pulled, he did something _bad_.

The hand in his hair does not pull. 

Bucky sobs into the teenagers shoulder. His face is hot against her shoulder, he sniffles, a whimper escaping. “Hey, Bucky. You’re okay. It’s me, we’re right here. We’re in New York.”

The hand in his hair instead pets his scalp. He doesn’t hug back, but he leans into the hold. His body is uncomfortably stiff. The teen is much smaller than he is. The hand on his back does not stop soothing him, she continues comforting Bucky. Emmy comes back, placing a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder after cleaning up the waste bin.

The teen cries with Bucky, tears steadily stream down her cheeks. But _why_?

“Hey, don’t pull your hair,” the teen sniffles, gently grabbing Bucky’s metal hand. Why can’t he remember anything right now? 

_Your three targets are a 57 year old man, 53 year old female, and a 46 year old man. And anybody who gets in the way. Anybody, asset._

_Chair. The chair. The mouthpiece. Bucky gags._

“You’re okay, Bucky. You’re right here with me, Jesse. And Emmy is here,” the teen shakily speaks, her voice wet. She breathes in deeply, trying to get herself under control and her tears under control. 

_Jesse. Emmy. Safe_.

Bucky’s coherent thoughts finally come back, and he grips tightly onto the teen. He hesitantly pulls back, glancing around. His apartment. In New York. It’s September.

This impending doom, Bucky knew it wasn’t inevitable but he didn’t think something would happen _so_ soon. His throat feels constricted when the teenager regretfully peels herself away from hugging Bucky and he notices her bruised arm.

“ _Shit,_ your arm—“

“It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have touched you,” she is quick to cut him off, ready to defend and hold her ground. She has such unwavering faith in him right now, even though he hurt her and panic just wells inside of him.

“Bucky, you’re okay,” Emmy reaches over, grabbing his flesh hand and taking it in his. “Just a nightmare.”

Bucky can’t move. He closes his eyes with a depressed sigh. He _hurt_ the teen. He hurt her. She’s been nothing but kind. Hell, he likes the kid. It’s only been a couple of weeks since he moved in, he sees her all the time now.

Jesse reaches over to gently wipe a tear off of Bucky’s face that he hadn’t realized was there. There’s apprehension in her face, and she quietly stammers for a few seconds but then closes her mouth, her lips drawn in a tight line. 

“You guys should leave,” Bucky mutters close to a whisper. 

“No,” Jesse demands, standing her ground.

He wants to run the other way. His _metal arm_ is shaking, for Christ’s sake. It’s a metal arm. He can’t hurt anybody anymore. He can’t do it. He closes his eyes, letting the tears stream steadily down his sticky cheek. He’s pale, cold, angry at himself.

He peeks his eyes open when he feels a warm sensation in his hand. He looks over, noticing Emmy’s hand laced with his.

“Look at me, Bucky,” Emmy says, voice thick with hurt. “You take care of us, we take care of you.”

“I’m not-”

“Then don’t let us down,” Jesse countered. “I’ll stay here with you. Emmy will, too. We’re here by your side until you feel better. I’ll even stay until you fall asleep.”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky argues, staring down at her bruised arm. His voice is rough. ‘I hurt you. Get out of here.”

“I’m making you tea,” Emmy demands, inching forward to catch Bucky’s eyes. He doesn’t look back at her, but she gets up to get his tea ready.

“You can lay down. I promise, I will leave. I want to make sure you’re okay,” Jesse pleads, still sitting besides Bucky on his mattress.

“Just go. Please,” Bucky begs, now annoyed. He can never live with this. He won’t be able to. He’s better than this. “I’m going to the loveseat.”

He should shout at her for following him. Why is she still here, after he _hurt_ her. Is she naive? She should be terrified of him, everybody always ends up feeling that way.

He sits back, listening to the kettle in the kitchen. She drapes a blanket around him, sitting by his side. She reaches out, grabbing his hand. He’s surprised, but relieved when she doesn’t hold it. She wraps her pinky around his flesh one.

“Bucky, I pinky promise I’m here for you,” she whispers, almost too quietly to be heard even in the dead of night. Her face is lowly illuminated by the small lamp Emmy turned on in the corner, her unwavering faith in him present. She’s determined to keep her promise, the stubborn little shit.

He looks away, his jaw clenching but he doesn’t pull his hand back. He can’t accept this. He _wants_ to continue being there for them. He’s grown attached to them and to all of his neighbors. He shouldn’t. He sniffles, his nightmares, or rather his memories, fading into the night. The new company changes the ambiance of his apartment and the hand holding his keeps him grounded.

He squeezes her pinky back gently, not expecting a lapful of a hugging teenager. He stiffens again. Emmy sets the tea down on the stool she brought over from his kitchen island, joining the hug. He groans, annoyed fondly with them. He hugs them both back, tightly. He just gives in, small arms squeezing him and comforting him. The slight shiver leaves his body, surrounded by body warmth and tenderness. They don’t know how long they stay like this, Bucky practically cradling the teen and Emmy is locked around the both of them, but he knows he’s feeling less alone right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! There is more fluff to come. Please let me know if I should start adding trigger warnings for chapters.


	3. Chapter 3: The Act of Falling

The blue faint light from the laptop screen distracts Bucky and the light dances into the middle of the night. He’s not really watching the movie that Emmy put on before sleepily sitting on the floor after they attempted to calm Bucky down. It’s on her laptop, resting on his mattress he dragged closer to the loveseat. He absently holds his cream-colored tea mug, it’s halfway full and definitely not warm anymore.

“Okay, so, let me get this straight,” Bucky says into the dark, he’s sure Jesse and Emmy have fallen asleep by now. “This guy is a criminal, a thief, then uses somebody’s home to _hide_?”

Jesse chuckles and she’s crammed next to him on the loveseat with her legs stretched out in front of her. Emmy is sitting on the floor, her head in her younger sister’s lap. Jesse sits criss-crossed next to him, both of them sharing a blanket. “He didn’t know someone lived in the tower. Hence, he was surprised when she knocked him out with a frying pan.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, stating the obvious. “He’s a thief. He just stole a crown from grieving parents.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” she absently adds, watching the movie and sighs quietly. He wants to tell the kid to go the hell to sleep, but he knows she won’t budge. They’ve already argued twice over this. Emmy groans at them, she’s too tired to deal with them. Bucky can’t blame her. He woke them up, and because he couldn’t sleep after they hugged, they decided to stay with him. Bucky felt like he was going crazy listening to the rain pelting gently against the window. He wants to bring up her bruised arm, but they both know the conversation will not go anywhere.

“Emmy, go to sleep in our room,” Jesse nudges her, annoyed with her sister. “Let me watch Tangled in peace. You’re too annoying.”

Emmy sighs, sleepily standing up. “If you two need _anything,_ come get me. I don’t care what time it is. I don’t care what the request is.”

She drags a hand down her face once she stands up. Bucky knows she genuinely means this, but he could never go through with that request. Emmy places a kiss on her sisters’ cheek and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder, showing no sign of hesitation to show kindness to him. He smiles at her. “Night.”

They turn back to the movie, Bucky sighing very dramatically out loud when Flynn takes down _Wanted_ posters with his face on it.

“If you have something to say, just say it,” the kid laughs.

“Hey, he broke into someone’s home. Reminds me of someone,” Bucky deadpans, nudging the kids arm that’s leaning against his left arm. He turns to her, catching her grimace. 

“Sorry. I panicked when I heard you, found your spare key,” she straightened herself up, turning to look at Bucky. Her searching eyes look back at him, a complete 180 from Bucky’s sarcastic comment. 

_Spare key?_

Before he can ask, she answers, “Landlord probably left it there under the doormat and didn’t tell you. He’s not the best. I left it on your counter.”

He nods, “Well.. Thanks, kid.” They quiet again, and she turns back to the laptop screen. First, why has this teen dealt with their landlord, she’s a kid. He supposes she helps out paying rent if she has her own job and her sister works nonstop. But, how could she have trusted Bucky enough to go into his apartment during his nightmare? He should have never told her about being in the army, because now she will probably treat him differently. Try to fix him. But he _can’t_ be fixed. He’s putting her at risk, he already _hurt_ her.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she nudges Bucky to listen to the next song, _I’ve Got a Dream._ She turns back to him, taking too much enjoyment in Bucky’s incredulous reaction to the movie. Bucky can really relate to the hook-handed man.

Bucky isn’t feeling great after his nightmare or the fact that he has company, but Emmy would _not_ budge once she insisted that somebody should keep him company tonight. He turns back to Jesse’s bruised arm, holding his hand out to grab it.

She turns, puzzled, but obliges and lifts her own arm up towards his reaching hand. He gently grabs her arm with his metal hand but drops it after inspecting it for a second and realizing he has a flesh arm in his metal hand. He refuses to touch anything with his metal arm after hurting her own arm. The only thing he’s used his metal arm for in the last few months is slowly, but surely, regaining his arm movement with inanimate objects. “Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head, but her expression unreadable. Her lips are drawn in a tight line, but other than that her face is.. calm. When it shouldn’t be.

“You can- you can tell me. Promise. I won’t freak out,” Bucky begins with a wry expression. “Or at least I won’t until tomorrow.”

The teen bursts out laughing, visibly relaxing. “Just like any other bruise, I guess. Hurts if you touch it.”

Bucky nods, his stomach twisting. The least he can do is offer her something, he’s still in disbelief she’s offering him company. “I’ll go get something for it.”

A minute later after shuffling around in his apartment, dropping a bag of frozen vegetables, and scrimmaging for some aloe vera, he sits back down next to Jesse on the couch. Her head is resting against the armrest, and the guilt floods right back in. She should be sleeping in her own bed, not babysitting him.

_“Aye, Dugan, get on out of here. I’ll be fine,” Bucky says into night. They’re somewhere in the middle of a battlefield of Berlin. Thank god they get their own tents._

_“It’s either me or Cap that patches up your arm. I think you’d rather it be me,” Dugan snorts, bringing out the first aid kit. “Or else you’ll be getting kisses up and down your arm.”_

_Bucky can’t help but laugh out loud. Steve’s the most reckless, chaotic leader, but he’s fierce and looks out for his men._

_The lantern set up in the tent hums in the corner of the tent. The light is the only heat source, it’s the dead of winter. They’ve decided to all share one tent tonight. Their usual setup is the leaders as close to the tent entrance as possible, and the men spread out. They don’t care if they must lay beside each other at night, it’s war and they’re all scared. The ground is hard on their lower backs, but at least they have some sort of shelter to cover them._

_Dugan sterilizes his arm and applies burn cream, it’s cheap stuff they have in their first aid kit but better than nothing. They’re a mile out from the nearest medical tent, so they decided they’d wait to make the journey there, instead of running off in the middle of the night. Today, he got caught in the line of fire and the consequences are a burnt arm. It definitely could have been worse, but he feels blood smeared in his skin, it almost feels permanent when he rubs over it and it’s cracked blood._

_“Rogers!” Dugan yells and beams up at Steve, voice booming in the small tent that causes Bucky to fright. “Sergeant Barnes here is being patched up. Mind reading him a bedtime story?”_

_Bucky just rolls his eyes and sighs, nudging at Dugan to stop. He notices Steve’s set jaw, his eyes burning into Bucky’s arms. He’s glaring. Dum Dum was right, Steve’s a mother-hen._

_Well, Bucky used to be the mother-hen. With an asthmatic Steve living with him in the same apartment, he had to work extra to keep them off the streets and buy Steve’s medicine. He was the strongest-fragile guy Bucky has ever met._

_“Alright, Sarge, you’re done,” Dugan sighs, putting the medical supplies away. Bucky rubs over his flesh left arm, wondering when the burns would heal. Or if they ever would._

Bucky is slowly pulled away out of his memories once the kid is finished rubbing aloe vera over her own arm and quietly thanks him. He absently reaches over and gently smoothes over in the gel in that she missed on her forearm. He hasn’t had memories of the 107th since DC. After visiting the Smithsonian museum, he has vague memories and would hear familiar voices in his head. He’d try to connect the pieces of these conversations. He felt crazy putting the puzzle pieces together, but eventually it made sense. Tonight, he _remembered._ It was real. 

He gently squeezes Jesse’s arm, careful around her bruise. “Go to sleep. Now. It’s 3AM.”

As if she’s on cue, she yawns as soon as Bucky mentions sleep and he offers to wrap her arm up for the night. “ ‘S fine. I’ll wear my sweater, so the gel doesn’t get everywhere.”

Bucky nods, closing Emmy’s laptop and reminding himself to finish the movie with them later on. The teenager is way too surprised when Bucky says the animation is amazing, insisting there’s even better out there. 

“I’ve gotta show you the movie Brave. Have you seen it?” Jesse asks, curling up into a ball on the loveseat while Bucky sets up his own bed back into the corner and settles in. He takes out his notebook, trying to scribble his memory down and accidentally ignores the kid for a minute. He can’t forget this. He will be too frazzled in the morning to remember this, and he must put on his best face to go to work tomorrow.

“No, kid, this is the first movie I’ve ever seen. I think,” Bucky replies, caught off guard by her silence. She was absently watching him as he wrote in his journal, brows furrowed. But once he peeks over at her, her eyebrows are almost raised to her hairline. 

“You’ve never seen any movies before!” she over-excitedly asks, and he can’t help but feel like he has said something wrong. He just hasn’t watched since leaving Washington, DC and coming to New York. He knows watching movies are popular in homes, he has lost decades, but he _does_ remember every mission. Each interruption of a family movie night as the Winter Soldier turning into a massacre—

Bucky swallows hard, trying to force his anxiety down. He feels a lump in his throat and shakes his head. He needs to swallow this anguish, he can’t let it consume him. He tenses, realizing how fucked up he is. 

“Are you okay with me staying here?” the teenager breaks the silence, facing Bucky while he gets back up to turn the lamp on in the corner he forgot about.

“Yeah, fine with me. As long as you don’t snore,” Bucky quips, grabbing her a blanket off of his bed and handing it over. He snorts at his own joke.

“Whoever wakes the other person up first owes them twenty bucks,” Jesse said, reaching out for Bucky’s hand. He doesn’t expect it, but let’s her grab his hand. “Night. I hope you feel better.”

His heart squeezes. His jaw tightens. It’s unusual for someone else to show concern for him, but to vocalize it? She does it in a casual way, like she won’t make a big deal out of it because she doesn’t need to. He’s grateful and upset for this kid. How can she trust him so much when he can literally snap at any second? He doesn’t even know the degree of his mind, some days he doesn’t know if he’ll kill anyone or kill himself.

“Goodnigh, kid,” Bucky whispers. He smoothes a thumb over her knuckles and drops her hand. For the rest of the night, he stares at the ceiling. Silent and slow breaths fill the apartment. Car headlights glimmer across the ceiling, faint through the newspaper covering his windows. 

——————————

The kids phone alarm sounds off incessantly in the morning and Bucky groans. It’s already a shitty morning, especially after his horrific nightmare last night. His apartment is dark and rain patterns against the window and the cold seeps in through the front door from the corridor. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but by the sharp pain in his head it’s an indication he didn’t get much sleep.

He can hardly open his eyes, but he does when he senses the teen get up from the couch. 

“Hey, kid,” he croaks out and props himself up weakly on his elbow. He’s dazed from his nightmare, even hours later. The feeling of uneasiness settles deep into his abdomen and he can’t shake it. 

The kid smiles warmly at him, “Morning, Bucky. I’ll be right back.”

Bucky gets ready for work and the cold chill of his apartment immediately nips at his bare skin not covered by pants or his t-shirt. He drowsily got off his mattress and with heavy steps, made his way to the bathroom and is standing in his bathroom doorway. He begins rotating his titanium arm, trying to relieve the dull pain forming. While he was getting dressed is when he notices something else is wrong with his arm. He threw on as many layers as he could, though he doesn’t own much. He’s guessing the cold is causing a pain in his metal arm, traveling down to his ribs. 

Bucky stands in front of his small bathroom mirror and takes his left arm out of the neck of his shirt to observe his arm. He gently pokes and prods at the scarring at his shoulder. Every time he moves his shoulder, a sharp pain travels through his arm and hits his collarbone. He’s learned to ignore it, but days like today it’s bothering him too much. 

He stares up at the buzzing light in his bathroom, another thing he needs to fix in this apartment. He dresses himself back up and forgets the kid was coming back before they leave for school and work. When he attempts to grab the bathroom door to let himself out his arm is moving heavier and slower than usual, like a branch heavy with snow bows down, before it snaps and breaks. Bucky could just to the ground and cry right now.

It’s going to be a hassle and pain in his ass to do work today, he’s grocery shopping for Jackson, the elderly man who lives a few doors down. Afterwards, he has a small construction job at noon that he’s being paid for under the table. Work is work, but with his arm acting up it’s going to be miserable. 

His mood sours even further.

Bucky ignores the kid and her siblings when they come in, he doesn’t want his sulking and temper to be so obvious to everyone else. He tries to soften when the kid hands him a cinnamon roll they bought, each of them eating their own. 

“Caleb, Nick, you guys are gonna miss your bus. Go,” Jesse demands. They give their older sister a hug and say bye to Bucky. He waves them off. 

Bucky takes one small bite out of the cinnamon roll, but sets it down on his kitchen counter on a napkin. His metal hand nervously grabs at some locks of his hair, and he moves the hair out of his face. “Thanks for this, kid. I-I’m sorry for being down this morning. I’ve gotta go. I don’t know what I can do—“

Bucky feels warmth wrapped around his torso, caught off guard by the kid hugging him. She hardly reaches his chest in height but rests her head on his chest. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s not your fault. Have a good day at work.”

Bucky's arm comes around her and he’s just taken aback, his metal arm hovering in the air. She hasn’t let go, so he gently cradles her head. 

He can’t help but become filled with tenderness, but that’s completely ruined when he opens the blue metal door leading out to the streets of Brooklyn and sees the dark sky. It’s abnormally dark and everybody walking is more sluggish than usual. He double checks to see if he has Jackson’s grocery list, and then walks with his small jacket in the drizzle. He debates taking a bus to the grocery store or getting his clothes wet and must work all day in wet clothes. Bucky glowers, stepping in an unleveled part of the sidewalk and his shoes and socks become soaked through. 

Fucking hell.

Bucky resists the urge to say _fuck everything_ , closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and suppresses his urge to cry and make his way back to his shitty apartment to sleep the day away. He needs the money from these jobs, they’re kind of easy jobs and under the table. He needs the money, too. With his neighbors cooking for him all the time, the least he can do is for them is to share some food with them too. Without them, Bucky would be eating a few meals a week. With Angie making lunch on days she isn’t visiting her wife in the hospital, she always asks if he wants extras when all the kids aren’t at school and won’t eat all the food. When Bucky visits the toddler next door to him, his mother Anneliese tells Bucky stories of her home in El Salvador and feeds him random sweet food her family sent them. The toddler Danny usually shares his food with Bucky, attempting to feed Bucky spoonful’s of Mac and cheese. 

He presses his face against the bus window once he’s in, eyes shut, and takes several deep breaths after dropping his change when trying to get on the bus. It’s just a shitty morning after a shitty night, he reminds himself. 

Things will suck for a few hours, but then he’ll be back in his apartment, eventually his clothes will be dry. He’ll have more cash in hand, dry and warm and cheerful kids talking to him about anything and everything. Maybe he’ll even have a hot meal in his stomach after this dreary day.

_Bucky,_ he thinks, _don’t get your hopes up_. Maybe his encouraging thoughts give him a push to go up to the pharmacy clerk to pick up Jackson’s medicine for him. Shopping in the 21st century is hard. He left arm shakes when he signs his signature for the insurance, but he sighs and deposits the medicine into one of the grocery bags.

The second job goes horribly wrong. Bucky overextended himself by going to work today, he guesses. Lifting heavy equipment and being around all the drill rigs emitting the loudest noises on the street isn’t helping. Bucky’s one of the workers lifting slabs of heavy concrete, and he really has no choice. He’s a super soldier, why is he feeling so sick? The cold and dampness of the construction work on the streets wreak havoc on his malfunctioning metal arm. And the flashbacks. They won’t stop. He needs them to.

He tells the manager Joey that he needs to go. 

“Get your ass back over here, or you’ll be fired. You can’t ditch in the middle of the job,” Joey scolds. 

_Bucky wakes up in the frozen ravine, the train was long gone. He blinks unsteadily, his eyelids fluttering uncontrollably. Snow has frozen over most of his body and he can’t move. He can’t move a finger. He whimpers, he can’t feel anything. Is he dead? Death isn’t like this. He wants his mom. He wants Steve. He couldn’t hold on to the train. He didn’t reach far enough for Steve. Why is he still alive? This isn’t the afterlife preached about in church._

_He cranes his head to the side; his chest immediately tightens, and he thinks he’s going to die. This is it. His left arm is gone. His face turns to stone. He retches beside him into the snow, sobbing. No one is going to hear him. The feeling of falling hits him again and he grips the snow with his one free hand, his phantom limb feels real._

Bucky runs off, disposing his construction uniform on the ground and then feels bile rising up his throat. He makes it to the nearest alleyway, panic coursing through his body. He hasn’t felt this awful and anxious since his last memory swipe, he thought he would die then. The fear of falling hits him again. Once again.

He dry-heaves and his shoulders shake, and he grabs onto the nearest trash can that is covered in grime. He feels everyone’s stares on him, and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s grateful or disappointed nobody stops to check on him. 

He can feel the pain all over his body from falling off the train. He can feel it, it’s vivid. Desperation fills his body and he falls over on the ground, staring up at the gloomy clouds. His death-grip on his left arm turns his knuckles white. 

Bucky wants to go home. The sun has set, and the temperature has dropped and he’s shivering on the ground in an alleyway. He ignores his sounds of pain, he ignores his shaking hand, he ignores the tremble in his lips. 

New Yorkers start to notice his crazy ghost eyes again. He recognizes the judgement in their eyes, as they watch him tremble on the ground and his chest rises in rapid breaths. He’s a ghost. He was supposed to die in the ravine.

Bucky floats his way home. His steps don’t feel real, he’s dizzy. He convinced himself he wants to see his neighbors just for the free food. It’s cold, dark, and raining still, nobody wants to see Bucky. They’re all in the comfort of their own studio apartments. Each family, there for each other. There’s no way they’ll want to be near a sick-covered Bucky, sick covering the collar of his gray shirt. 

One of the things to really bring Bucky down is that he won’t see any of his neighbors tonight. He won’t have Danny coloring him a picture from a random notebook he found, and he won’t have smiles talking about his exams. He won’t have America rolling her eyes at him, but she secretly smiles after, because she just has an attitude. Despite his best efforts not to, he _had_ gotten his hopes up of seeing them. 

He knows deep down he just— wanted to see _them_. All of them. The kids. He’s disappointed he won’t be able to. When he’s with his neighbors he’s not the Winter Soldier, he isn’t thinking of his cursed bloodstream. _Want_ is wrong now. He’s here to survive and try to be kind to whoever he can. He _needs_ to eat, sleep, and make money for rent.

Maybe Hydra is still after him. Maybe they aren’t. Maybe they want to drag his corpse back to Siberia.

He’s never felt more pathetic than in this moment, he wants to be a part of a family. A community. With his neighbors, not being a wanted fugitive running from Hydra. He stares down at his shaking hands, wishing the red blood was there to solidify his guilt. Something.

He reaches the third floor and the sizzling sound of a stove catches his attention. Miles, America, and Jesse are cooking in the older gentleman Jackson’s room.

A smile almost engulfs Bucky’s face seeing them, but their expressions juxtapose how he’s feeling. Their gleeful, light expressions immediately revolve into pure horror.

“Bucky? What happened?” Miles asks, setting his spatula down. Bucky can’t help but shrink in on himself.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” America adds, but immediately grimacing. “I’m sorry, that was mean. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Bucky whispers, waving to everybody. 

“Mr. Barnes, it’s good to see you again. I was telling the kids about how wonderful you are. They said the same thing about you,” Jackson relays in a raspy voice, shifting at his own wooden kitchen table. The realization of what the elderly black gentleman just said dizzies him, he’s probably just being kind. 

“I was just telling America and Miles about how you've been helping me with my Spanish homework. Miles is half-Latino and can’t write in Spanish,” Jesse says, walking over to Bucky and beaming up at him. “You should come watch us cook. You’d be proud.”

“It’s no problem, kid,” Bucky says, unsure of where to go from here and once again, she hugs him. A friendly greeting. He gently pushes her off, squeezing her arm. “I’ll be right back.”

The kid blushes slightly, “Sorry- uhm, for hugging you. It’s okay if you don’t like hugs as greetings. I’m sorry.”

Of course she thinks it’s her fault, because today is just a shit day and for some odd reason Bucky can’t have normal interactions with humans.

Bucky sighs. “It’s not your fault. My shirts dirty,” he says. “I’ll come cook with you guys.”

America runs downstairs to her room, smiling when Bucky enters the room at the same time. “I have the perfect thing for this icky weather and for everything going wrong with the landlord. Hot chocolate.” 

Hot chocolate sounds familiar to Bucky, but not quite. Chocolate was a luxury in the 1930s, but his family _could_ afford it, not that they needed it. His heart races at another memory swarming his brain. Maybe the familiar smell of the beverage being poured a few feet away triggered this vague memory.

“Sounds good, America. But chocolate won’t fix our landlord sending creeps to bug us in the apartment and sexually harass the women.”

“They raised our rent 300 dollars, I have to go back to work at the diner for extra money for Emmy,” Jesse chimes in, placing a plate of food in front of Bucky. He’s learned in front of these kids, they’ll ramble and won’t need his input unless they ask for it. But for this, he needs to disrupt.

“The landlord is bothering you guys?” Bucky asks, picking up his fork with his flesh hand and noticed their eyes all simultaneously drop to his hand. It’s shaking. 

“America and I are probably going to be kicked out,” Miles confides, nervously turning to everyone. “The landlord gave us an eviction warning. We haven’t noticed anybody else get one.”

Bucky chest tightens at the mention of rent raises, he lost his money today from the construction job. 6 hours of work with no pay because he left to vomit. He can’t complain to them, they’re kids worrying about rent and being kicked out. He can’t dump his problems on them, he feels pathetic that he can’t help them because he can hardly help himself.

“My mom’s told me I need to drop out of my private school, that they can’t afford it while trying to pay for rent. It’s fucking dumb,” America sneers, dropping the spatula on the counter.

“America, don’t worry. You’ll figure it out,” Mr. Jackson adds, his hand shaking the same way Bucky’s was as he picks up his fork to eat the lo-mein noodles the kids made. 

The rest of their dinner, Bucky nods to questions, shakes his head, and doesn’t know which random spiel to comment on. 

“Guys, Bucky watched Tangled for the first time yesterday,” Jesse shovels noodles into her mouth, turning to Miles and America. Bucky can’t help the small smirk on his face, rolling his eyes.

“It was the first movies he’s seen,” Jesse jokes, but she’s not wrong. 

He’s spent most of his life hardly remembering who or where he is, so can she _blame_ him for not finding the time to watch movies? But he can’t say this, not to them. 

“Let’s watch Up next,” Miles adds, snorting at America and Jesse’s reactions. 

Jesse smiles warmly at Bucky, “It was a dumb joke. I keep doing that, Bucky. Sorry.”

“Hey, I have time now to watch movies. I’ll watch that other movie,” Bucky says with a non-committal aloof shrug, poking at his full plate of food. “But I might cry, just like at the lantern scene in Tangled.”

“Sap,” Jesse laughs, getting up to clean all of their plates. “Are you done?”

Bucky nods, and then there’s an awkward and quiet silence. He doesn’t really know what to say anymore, and he figures he should talk about them more and ask about their days. But being called a sap registers another memory.

Bucky’s lips quirked upwards, and they notice. 

“What?” Miles asks, an amused smile on his face and he’s looking at Bucky with large brown eyes, full of curiosity. Just for a small gesture of his.

“Being called a sap reminded me of my old best friend,” Bucky quietly adds, his heart hammering in his chest. What if he gave too much away from that? Bucky honestly can’t fathom why these kids invited him over right now, they seemed to be fine without him here. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, though, because the kids are already talking again. 

“Hey, can I do homework in your apartment? My brothers are too loud,” Jesse asks, turning to Buck my and away from the sink. She deposits a clean dish into the drying rack. “They stayed after school and Emmy is getting them, so they’ll be home soon.”

“Yeah, go ahead, kid. Let’s leave Jackson alone so he can relax,” Bucky says, “You two can come, too. If you’re going to hang around me, might as well do something productive.”

He thinks to himself that he immediately regrets this, he needs to write down all of his memories in his journal. Jesse didn’t seem to care last night or pry at the fact that he did, and he doesn’t want to raise more questions. He really does not want to lie to them.

“If you don’t mind, Bucky. I can show you my circuit board again,” Miles gleams. Bucky simply nods, and he doesn’t miss the way Miles’ eyes light up and feels out of place, like he offered much more than a set of eyes on his project. It floors Bucky, how much these kids react to whatever Bucky says or does, the opposite of strangers in the street ignoring him like a ghost.

—————

Bucky feels very out of place having two teenagers doing homework at his kitchen counter, and another one occupying his couch and coffee table. They don’t say anything, once again about his newspaper covered windows, his nightmare the night before, nothing. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved. 

It doesn’t make sense. Bucky craves social interaction, but these teenagers all have their own families, but they’re here, giving Bucky company. 

His hand has been continuously trembling, he turns his journal page over and continues to write with his titanium hand. Bucky sighs and leans his head back against his wall, shifting on his mattress. 

“Guys, can I play music out loud?” Jesse asks, lying down on the couch. Bucky couldn’t be bothered with music, he doesn’t have technology to listen to music. He shrugs.

“Only if you play a study playlist,” Miles says, scribbling in his notebook. 

Bucky turns to America and they wait for her permission, but she’s too focused on her work she doesn’t notice nor look up from her laptop. It’s a comfortable silence between all of them in buckys threadbare apartment. The rain hasn’t stopped, neither have his flashbacks and anxious thoughts.

Bucky asks if they have enough light in the apartment but pauses when the teen turns her music on softly, it barely echoes through the room. A laid-back guitar plays softly and then is accompanied by a trumpet, the melodies harmonizing with syncopated, off-tempo beats. The trumpet overpowers the high-energy drums in the background and Bucky’s eyes are wide. 

“What song is this?” he asks, the kid completely unaware of his thunder-struck reaction to these music. He feels like it’s 1941 again and he’s back in Brooklyn listening on an antique radio in his living room that is similarly too small, like this one. 

Jesse glances over at him, then she starts beaming at his astonishment. She’s visibly excited someone is commenting on the music. She sets her notebook down. “This is my favorite jazz and indie band. I listen to them when I study.”

His expression falters, and he stammers for a second. She definitely notices but doesn’t comment. If Bucky can’t keep the smile off of his face from the music, well, they’re studying and staring at their laptop screens, anyway.

Without the slightest hesitation, she instantly knows somethings wrong with Bucky. Jesse glances over at him when his hand locked up while writing, he can’t write about his Mama and Papa. She makes sure the others don’t notice or make a big deal out of it, she’s quiet and casual. She walks over to sit beside him on his lumpy old mattress on the floor. He clutches his hand to his chest, jaw tightening, and a single tear falls from his welled up, burning eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not here, not now.

She looks over at him, surprised, but not wary like he expected her to be at a grown man crying while writing in some random journal he owns. And he owns a lot. They’re stacked haphazardly all over the apartment. If anything— she seems determined right now. 

She wraps an arm of hers around him and simply rests her head on his metal shoulder, Bucky is still curled up in himself. Just this small act— Bucky lets out a small cry. Why is she doing this? 

“Hey, Bucky, I— if you want, you don’t have to if you don’t want— but,” she doesn’t even look up at Bucky as she nervously speaks, “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know Emmy is here, too.”

Her soft voice grabs Miles and America’s attention. Their brows furrow in concern and Miles is the first to stand up. Bucky feels miserable worrying these kids but he’s just so confused why they would be concerned and want to help him. The two teens join them and sit on the edge Bucky’s bed. 

“I’m okay,” Bucky pleaded, damp eyes. He tries to make eye contact with at least one of them but his vision blurs from his tears. The wetness in his eyes and how quick it spills over like a pipe bursting is just sad.

All of his inner-turmoil pours out of him once he feels more arms wrapped around him, he buries his head down and just let’s go. The vulnerability seeps out of him like water seeping through rocks in a river, there’s no ending. 

He shouldn’t be burying his burdens on three teenagers. 

Sure, Miles is a grown adult living on his own and was raised by good parents who visit him from the other side of Brooklyn to randomly check in on him. America is independent and doesn’t let anybody get in her way, her front is sometimes her cynical attitude, And Jesse is brave and protects everyone around her, and she’s family-oriented, but they don’t need his sorrow on top of their own. They all come from very different families, but they know their place in this world, and Bucky envies it. He wishes they weren’t so confident in their decision to help him.

Under his gray long-sleeve shirt, the twinge of pain ruptures again and the only noise in the apartment is their soft breathing and Bucky’s sniffles and shaky breathes. The pain spreads through his shoulder, down to his rib cage. America squeezes Bucky’s shoulder.

His face is hot, and he’s exhausted from his emotional surrender. This may be the weakest point in his life, he thinks. Allowing his emotions to course out of him like a violent storm. It’s a blatant sign that he’s made of turbulence.

Neither of them are sure how long they hold onto Bucky for, just three teens comforting some sad sap, but they can’t deny the bond they’ve formed over the last month knowing each other and they’re hopeful for the future.

Even in the midst of the pressure pushing down on him, he realizes he isn’t as alone as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I hope you enjoyed :( Bucky finds little clues to being a found family, it's just taking a while for him to believe it. He misses his. Also, the song in reference at the end where Bucky breaks down from the song is called 'This Apple is Really Depressed' by Really From. Small disclaimer: this is found family and all platonic. Please do not make anything more of Bucky's relationship and bond with the kids and adults!!! and I'm sorry this is a bit shorter than usual, I wanted to get this out. Please comment!

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Thanks for reading! I will definitely add more tags as the story develops. This is my first multi-chapter fic I'm posting. I want to explore Bucky in Brooklyn, NY, recovering, finding a family, and learning to live again. I'm not sure how CA:Civil War compliant I'll make this story yet. If you have anything you want to see in this story, please let me know! Also, if I should keep adding scenes with all of these teens from the comics/movies. Don't worry, soft Bucky content will be coming soon, I just want to emphasize how much he is suffering from Hydra and how it won't be an easy adjustment in a new century.
> 
> This is for u, Mun!


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